Exiles
by Sushifer
Summary: Ferelden is at war on two fronts, and the man set to lead both sides is a bitter child of the Elvhenan, resenting his exile and all the trouble it has thrown him: not least an infuriating, captivating flat-eared assassin.
1. The Forest Disturbed

**_Author's Note:_**_ So. Here I go. This is not only the first long-form piece of fanfiction I've ever published, but, well, the first story I've ever set out to write and revise and generally get up to a quality I'm happy to share with others. The first novel length story I've ever released to the public, as it were. I am terrified and excited but mostly just thrilled to be finally getting it out of my system after half a year of gestation._

_It **is** going to be yet another Blight fic, but fingers crossed I'll be able to make it more interesting than just a straight up re-hashing. It won't be hugely AU, so I'm trying to tell a new story on the same framework, I suppose. There will be little use of in-game dialogue, and I'll only re-tell in-game scenes where I can add something significant to them, or where they're needed for the plot of this story. _

_Many many many thanks to Bitenomnom/ShiningMoon (depends on where you're asking for them) for reading, helping, and general moral support. I probably wouldn't have published so soon without you!_

_But enough from me! Read, and if you have a moment, let me know what you think. Reviews are lovely and always much appreciated. _

_-Sushifer _

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue: Forest<strong>

Here is the child who was cradled in the forest.

The child who learnt to run barefoot through corridors of trunk and bracken. The child who grew beneath sky framed by fringing leaves, in cool air that tasted of moss and earth after the rains had moved on. The boy who pinned the squirrel to the branch and sang as he climbed to pull free both corpse and bolt. The young man who watched the stag and all his harem cross the ford in a moment of scattered water and dark plunging bodies, a stream across the stream, to leave the clearing whispering of their passage but soon quite still and empty again.

Sometimes through those years he would wake early and go out to stand alone, to see the first crust of frost on varnished wood and sail while beyond, in the bluish light, the shapes of halla stamped and shook heads cowled in smoke, to feel the first bite of an ache in his belly that would grow as the year chilled. Yet there was no sadness in that, as he knew as certain as he knew his own name that in time the year would turn again and hunger shrink as the world filled with bright new life.

His existence moved on in this looped rhythm for many long, long years.

He never thought he would be anywhere but the aravel-ringed clearings of the forest, so he never tried to strengthen a stock of memory, for why would he need to remember the shape of a life that had not changed all the years he had inhabited it? He could turn, and there were the halla and the aravel. He could look and see the trees and all the lesser plants that gathered their skirts to back against the trunks. He could slip past the campfire and find the deer or the squirrel. Memory was for things left behind. All he had ever known was in his reach.

So it was only later that he began to cherish what he could recall of that time, only later that he turned over those pieces of a childhood in the woods in his mind, as he sat by a fire in a clumsy camp filled with strangers. But for now, he is here, in the home of clan Sabrae.

**Chapter One: The Forest Disturbed.**

"Arahad."

"Mm."

"Arahad."

"Mrm?"

"Arahad, you are _wriggling. _Again."

"Uh- what?"

"I said, you are wriggling. _Again._"

"What- I'm getting comfy-"

"Yes: wriggling."

"My arm was going dead. I was simply moving to-"

"No, you weren't. You were wriggling and you kicked me. _Again._"

" Elgarn's hand, can't you two _shut up?"_Junar rolled to face the two young men lying whispering beside him in the tent. The canvas space still held trapped summer heat even as night sank, and smelt increasingly of sweat. He rubbed his eyes rather deliberately. "If I'm ever out with either of you again I will head straight back to camp as soon as evening turns. Creators forbid I have to listen to you two hissing at each other another night! And Arahad, stop wriggling, _please."_

"Aha! You see-"

"Yes, and you're no better, Tamlen. Kick him back, don't start blathering so you wake up everyone else!"

Tamlen grunted and promptly followed this advice. Arahad kicked back, hard, in return.

"Ow!"

"Both of you! Please- _please_ shut up and let me sleep!"

"Abelas, oh wise hahren," whispered Tamlen. "I meant to say-" and he lowered his voice to a breath "_Ow."_

Junar groaned and covered his head with his shirt blanket.

* * *

><p>The three young elves rose with the dawning light. Their simple shelter was dismantled in minutes, and the scar of last night's campfire hidden not long after, so the forest clearing by the stream looked, at a glance, almost as untouched as when they had first reached it.<p>

Idle for a moment, Arahad held himself still and listened to the bird-chitter above him. Some miles back, beneath the same old racket, Ashalle would be just about to pound the first grain of the day.

"If we're to keep on the hunt another day-" said Junar.

"I see no reason not to, after we came so far," said Tamlen, already pulling off shirt and breeches as he crouched by the waterside.

"-Then someone should take those back to camp." He nudged the brace of pheasant lying beside the small package of rope-bound tent cloth.

"Of course," said Tamlen, between splashing his face with stream water. "I've no preference who goes. He glanced to Arahad, who shrugged.

"Neither have I, lethallin."

"I'll go then, if no one minds," said Junar, sighing with exaggerated irritation yet grinning all the while. "It'd be cruel to cut short your grand expedition. Though I can't understand why you both love to camp in the woods, when all you do out here is bicker!" He snorted as he slung the brace over his shoulder, moving to leave.

"Ah, da'len!" said Tamlen, throwing his arms wide and speaking a low, grand tone. "Can you not appreciate the adventure, the beauty of young men out in the mother wood, living off her bounty!"

"The spirit of hahren Paivel will live on, I see! And I'd appreciate it far more, I'm sure, if all the sweet sounds of the mother weren't masked by your squawking."

"Well. I just think it's nice to be free of all the hahren and their nagging for a time. To have space to move as I like."

"True, I suppose." Junar paused at the treeline, looking back to Arahad. "And I suppose you like it because he does, eh?"

"Oh-" Arahad blinked and tried very hard not to look to Tamlen. "No, I just think it's, uh, nice and peaceful, too."

"Oh? Well. Dareth shiral, brothers." They muttered farewells back and he slipped away into the trees.

"Huh! He gets full vallaslin first and all of sudden he's the elder and better who can speak as he likes," said Tamlen, now washing his legs. "Never mind that we've all worn 'em for years, now. You remember when he was just one of the nice little da'len? Before he got _rude?"_

"Oh, he's still alright," said Arahad, moving to Tamlen's side. "He's better than _Merrill."_

"Hah! The day we raise a da'len who's worse than Merrill is the day I turn flat-ear. And if he does come out with us again-"

"We'll bicker even more."

"Precisely." Tamlen gestured to the water. "Now, come on: you should clean up, while the water's here."

Arahad nodded and began to undress.

The young men washing in the stream were a caricature of opposites. True, both of them were all lean, sharp muscle with no real bulk or fat: if anything, they looked a little undernourished, with prominent ribs, spine and cheekbones. But the first was lank and narrow were the other was decidedly short and broader-shouldered; the first delicately pale with light hair cut close to the skull, where the other was tan brown and combed at dark hair that heaped about his face and hung halfway down his spine.

Tamlen shook out his clothes, standing on the bank so he loomed over the already shorter Arahad. "Ugh- It's always so unpleasant to have to put on old clothes when you're nice and fresh, eh, lethallin?" he said, sniffing his breeches.

"And that's why I brought your other shirt."

"You did? Ah, bless you!" Tamlen darted to the small pack.

Arahad shrugged. "I knew you'd been wearing that for a while, and in this heat we were bound to sweat our clothes stiff anyway, out on the hunt."

Tamlen chuckled. "You look after me better than I look after myself." New shirt pulled on, he ruffled Arahad's hair. "Come. I'll plait your hair again."

Half dressed, they sat in the first patch of golden sunlight to breach the tree cover, as Tamlen pulled Arahad's hair into a braid.

"I think Seriah's been making eyes at me," said Tamlen.

"Oh?" said Arahad, trying to sound interested.

"Well, I _think._She's a nice girl, though, isn't she?"

"I suppose. You think you might, uh, pair with her?"

"How could I know that, so soon? It's still early. That's why I'm telling you. What do you think?"

"What do _you_ think?"

"I wouldn't be asking you if I was happy with just what I thought!"

"Abelas. Truthfully- I don't know. If you like her- go after her."

"And what about you, eh? You never mention girls since Thayana. Going to spend all your days alone in that nice new aravel, are you?"

Arahad was very glad his back was to Tamlen. "It's not so long-"

"Two years."

"Exactly."

"That's long enough."

"To what?"

"To start looking again."

Arahad wished Tamlen would stop absently rubbing the locks of hair he had paused in plaiting between his fingers, so that his knuckles kept catching on the beads of Arahad's spine.

"I've not-" said Arahad, sitting forward an inch, "there's no-one, really, who would, when, when I have this- when I am-"

"Thayana didn't care about that." The sharpness of the remark silenced them both for a time.

Presently, Tamlen tied off the plait and when he spoke, his voice was softer. "All done. Come. I- it's only that you've been getting quieter and quieter, lately. I feel- I feel you're keeping me out."

Arahad had no reply.

* * *

><p>They had been out a few hours, and had picked up nothing but old trails when ahead, Tamlen suddenly tensed, then slid into the cover of a clump of vast ferns.<p>

"Shemlen," he mouthed.

Arahad heard them soon enough. Creators, but they were so _loud!_ They crashed through the world as if quite unaware anything but they existed within it.

"If they keep on in that direction, they'll hit camp," Arahad whispered, joining Tamlen.

"Then, lethallin, I think we'd better scare them off before they can get there."

* * *

><p>"What say you, lethallin? Do we kill them?"<p>

Tamlen's face was hard-frozen and Arahad could not tell if those words were show, or if he really, truly, meant to do it. Tamlen loved shem-scaring as he loved most pranks. But then, he never had to feign much to put venom in his voice when faced with a quickling.

"Isn't it more- do we believe them?" said Arahad.

Tamlen nudged the tablet piece one of the three shem had thrown to their feet. He sniffed, and looked up. How strange, thought Arahad, to see lanky Tamlen craning back to meet an eye. They were such ungainly creatures! It made him glad he had all the forest, away from the open places where humans stumbled and loomed.

"Do we believe them?" said Tamlen. "It's Elvish, but I bet it could have come from some pilfered hoard: I bet they buy and sell plenty of our ancestor's working's out there-" he drew back his bowstring and raised it to angle the nocked arrow at the leader's eye's. It was now much too tight for such a shot: but that hardly mattered when it made the most _menacing _creak.

"I believe them, Tamlen." He wanted Tamlen to meet his gaze.

"We believe them- so do we let them go?" The leader shem opened his mouth and stepped forward; to be driven back by an advancing Tamlen. "You move again and I _shoot!"_Creators, thought Arahad, but he really means to do it. There was a bright brittleness in his friend's grimace. Something was tipping in him, something was tipping over-

"Tamlen. I believe them."

"Please, ser, sers," the leader was bobbing his head like a bird, surrendered hands flapping. "Sers, we'll leave and not return, we do so, ah, apologise for this trespass, we didn't know, y'see-"

"Tamlen. If we kill them, others will come."

"Hah, yes, like flies to the bodies-"

"And they'll have a reason to hunt us."

"We've a reason to kill _them!"_

"And if enough shem come, we won't be able to hold out against them, Tamlen-"

"They know we're here, now. They go, they'll bring others, to drive us out-"

"And so we should do everything we can to give them no _reasons_ to be angry. To keep them away. _Tamlen._"

Tamlen met his eyes.

He looked back to the three shem.

"Run," he said.

* * *

><p>They were searching for the cave. Except, thought Arahad, it was now a matter of tracking. Even if the humans had not been truthful about this ancient elvish ruin, they had been truthful about the way they had come. The trampled trail they had left through the trees was broad and clear. The two hunters scarcely had to pause in their step to search it out.<p>

"That makes it nineteen," said Arahad.

"Mm?"

"Nineteen shemlen I've seen."

"What, today?"

Arahad elbowed him. "No, ever, of course!"

"Psh- too many!"

"Disregarding when I went to the village with you and Fenaral and hahren Ilen. There were too many there to bother counting."

"Much too many. The important thing is: did any of those you did count see _you?"_

"No more than half of 'em."

"Good!"

"Tamlen?"

"Mm?"

"You know it was right to let them go."

Tamlen sighed. "Yes. It was."

"The Keeper wouldn't have liked it. At all."

"And that's a good reason to not do something, is it?"

"Tamlen!"

"Well! It just made me angry. It just _makes_ me angry. I just- I just _despise_ them!"

"So do I!"

Tamlen sighed again, but this time he was smiling. "Ah, lethallin," he put an arm over Arahad's shoulders and bent to touch his head to his companion's. "Lethallin, I'm sorry. I know. You're right as ever, eh?"

"Hardly sounds like a compliment."

Tamlen's arm drew back so he could plant a fist on each hip. "Well, it was! I'm- I'm _affronted!_ I'd much prefer to be right on my own- than have to rely on _you_ to keep me right-"

Arahad sadly shook his head, not entirely managing to hold back a smirk.

Tamlen rolled his eyes. "I'm glad I had you there. I'm glad I have you here. There. Is that enough of a compliment?" Arahad rolled his eyes in return and stretched to rest an arm back on Tamlen's shoulders. "Truthfully- what'd happen if I didn't have you, lethallin?"

"What'd happen to _me_, though? My hair'd be a mess!"

"Oh, that's all I am to you? I see- I'm just your- your- your hair-neatening-man!" He gave Arahad a push, and a minor tussle ensued. When Arahad had Tamlen pinned to a tree, they settled and continued walking.

Tamlen prodded him again. "Just. Don't shut me out."

"I won't."

* * *

><p>The cave was real, and it was full of monsters. And at the end of it was a mirror. No-there he stopped. What he remembered just as well was how they had stood on the slope with their feet pointing to the vine-clotted gullet of the cave. He could still see how Tamlen bit his lip and rubbed both thumbs along the carved grooves of the tablet he clutched.<p>

"Tamlen, you shouldn't-"

"Go in? Why not? We found it. If we bring the others, we'll probably never get to see what's inside."

"The keeper-"

"Don't start on _her!"_

"I don't like the look of it- not at all-"

"Exactly! Exciting! Oh, come _on!_ Please. Won't you come?"

"All right."

* * *

><p>They had scurried through dark tunnels made damp and dripping by decay and moss and the sagging earth above. Things had come screaming at them from every dark corner: the fat, clicking spiders in their webs and the <em>creatures<em> that went on two legs but looked like nothing living should ever look, and last the largest bear he had ever seen; except it's flesh had been grey and hairless and ruptured with spikes. Never had he been somewhere so full of foul things intent on killing him.

And yet the tall, dull mirror at the head of the steps was what most made his throat clench and his belly chill.

Tamlen was reaching for it.

"Tamlen, you shouldn't-"

Too late.

* * *

><p>When he awoke and realised he was in the keeper's medicine tent, when he realised Tamlen was not there with him- he was unconcerned.<p>

Why would he be? He remembered being uneasy and then horribly frightened, but he could not remember what it had _felt_ like to be frightened. It was a closed memory with no bearing on him now: like a bad dream, he quite was certain. And when the keeper spoke of his two days unconscious, he had been worried, but more because he was aware he would have made everyone else worried, and he hated that. When she told him a human had found him by the mirror, and carried him back, he assumed she referred to only him because he was the only one there before her.

Then he began to feel queasy, so she broke off to let him rest, saying she would finish speaking with him when he felt more level.

After he had sat in the tent for a time, he got up to go to the Ariah-family aravel, to find Tamlen. And then he saw Mother Ariah bent over her own lap with a daughter on each side. He could hear the noise she made from twenty paces away. This was the women who had slapped the thighs and arms of any child, not just her own, who dared give her cheek or disobey her.

He went back to the keeper.

So when she said "And, Tamlen remains missing" - it was dulled and inch, the thump as a sinking realisation hit the bottom, but still, it _hit_, and all he could think of was the mirror and the cave mouth and _Tamlen_ before them both.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Elvish translations:<em>**

_Aravel – Dalish caravan._

_Elgarn - colloquial abbreviation of Elgar'nan._

_Dareth shiral - literally, safe journey. A farewell._

_Vallaslin - lit. blood writing. Dalish facial tattoos symbolising their wearer's coming of age. _

_Da'len - lit. little child. Specifically one yet to earn vallaslin. Also used as a term of endearment._

_Abelas - lit. sorrow. Used as an apology._

_Shemlen - lit. quick children. Term for humans._

_Lethallin - term of endearment, similar to clansman or cousin._

_Thanks to xseikax and Suilven for suggesting I add this section. Hopefully it'll be handy!_


	2. Arlavhenan

**_A/N:_**_ Just a short chapter- so the third should be arriving soonish. (In fact, it's ready more or less ready to post now, but I'd rather not deplete my buffer too quickly.) Thank you ever so much to everyone who's reviewed and story-alerted! Your support means a lot, and your feedback is very valuable. And big thanks again to Bitenomnom/ShiningMoon for continuing help and motivation and general loveliness. _

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Arlavhenan<strong>

Arahad swore as the strips of fletching hit the fire and shrivelled. It was the second time he had dropped some since he had begun fitting the feathers to his quiver-full of unfinished arrows. He held a shaft up- and his swearing turned to a hum of surprise as he saw how much it trembled.

No time to dwell on it, however. He wanted to finish as many as he could while there was still light left. He would be as well prepared for tomorrow as possible.

He turned and glanced past the edge of his aravel, to the darkening trees behind him. Somewhere out there, Tamlen was lost, and sickening.

Five arrows left. He would have them completed.

Yet keeping his hands busy was not strong enough distraction. He tried reciting the summer chant in his head, reciting anything, and still the same images pressed on him.

Tamlen by the cave mouth. Tamlen by the mirror. The more he dwelled on them, the more other thoughts grew round them. If Junar had been there, they would never have gone in at all. Tamlen might scoff, but he did heed Junar. Or if Arahad had only been stronger-

He stopped himself. Better, he thought, to concentrate on how glad I'll be when we find him. And then that foolish little thought sprung up in his head-

Will you tell him?

Of course not, he answered. Losing him for this brief time is pain enough. I'd lose him forever, if I did that.

It was all Pol's fault, this nagging voice. He should never have kept questioning him about... all that. It had put all sorts of completely foolish notions in him, when he had been happier before. He had been happier not knowing that it had a name, that-

And that was far enough.

Around him, the camp was turning towards evening. Hunters were returning from the trees, with meat or with nothing, to spouses who had their meals already on the fire.

"I've always said I could tell the time of day with my eyes closed."

Arahad jumped. Ashalle stood close to his hearth, smiling in her gentle, mournful way.

He tapped his brow in greeting and continued with his mending.

She went on: "Smell of thick woodsmoke, and chatter. That's evening."

"How would you tell the difference between morning and evening, then?"

"Oh, easily! The chatter is much more free and warm in the evening. In the morning, everyone's curt because they're so busy." She chuckled, and then nodded and touched her breastbone in a gesture of obsequience. "Aneth ara, ar ressan, and I ask to share your hearth."

"Atisha, ma resavhir; sit and be glad," he echoed. She had settled opposite him before he had even finished speaking.

"You shouldn't be alone," she said.

"You've never minded me tending my own fire before."

"There's plenty more who agree. You've been invited to tend a good few others, through me. Thayana's-"

"Oh, no-"

"Thayana's family said we could join them, for one. Ghilana brought back a deer! And she said we could have a good share of it, too. Such a fine girl. She'll be paired with Sethain, you know. Everyone's saying so. She might be a hunter, but she is so like her sister-"

"Abelas, but I don't want to sit with anyone. I'm _fine_. Everyone's treating me like- like a _widow!_"

"You won't even sit with me?"

"Well. Maybe you."

"And that's why I declined all offers and brought some food to share."

Arahad had to laugh as she unfolded her apron to take out a neat bundle.

"You know me better than I know my own self!"

Recognition struck, bursting from that core of dark thoughts: Tamlen had said just that to him, not so long ago.

Ashalle did not notice his sudden grimace as she began to unload her gatherings. "Someone has to interpret all your little moods. Merciful Lady knows, you'd never show what you thought to anyone freely! And you all alone out here; I worry, I do worry. It's not right to be young, and alone in aravel." She tutted. "Now, pass me that pot and your water tub and I'll begin. I've no meat, I'm afraid, though Junar made sure I got a good share of that pheasant you boys snared- but I've fish, and we came on _such_ a good crop of those water roots that are fattening so nicely, when we were gathering by the west streams..."

I should have called her over hours back, he thought, as they began preparing a meal. Never mind tasks, all I needed was another voice to push out the ones circling my head.

When all that was left was to prod the fish and ember-packed roots, some of the spark went from Ashalle's voice. "So. You're to lead the expedition back to find this cave, tomorrow."

"To find Tamlen, yes."

Her mouth twisted. Arahad decided this must be at the state of their meal. "Well, yes. To see what can be found."

"You don't think I should go, do you?"

"I only worry that you're still sick. Recovering."

"I'm well enough! And that's why I've got to find Tamlen. While he's still well enough."

"Oh, da'len- has no-one told you how- how _dreadful_ a state you were in when the shemlen brought you back? We were all certain that you would- well, it was only the keeper's strongest magicks that pulled you out of whatever fever that place had given you. And she hasn't even cured you fully, yet. And- and you _know_ that the keeper's ordered all hunting parties to scout for signs, too, and there's been nothing, so I only worry that you're- that you think- well. Determination is admirable. But... turn an ear to this poor old woman and be wary that you won't always succeed."

Arahad said nothing.

* * *

><p>Arahad excused himself not long after full dark filled the camp. With his blessing, Ashalle stayed up to tend the ends of the fire. As he sat, dressed, on the palette in his aravel, he had to admit it was comforting to think of her out there, warming some herb tea and humming to herself over the last fist of ember-light. But once Tamlen had entered the conversation, even Ashalle's kindness could not keep him from sinking back into that same old dark mood and so it was better to be alone.<p>

He lay back, still dressed, when voices began outside his walls. It seemed Anaiha had joined Ashalle. He did not try and listen, until 'Tamlen' caught his ear, and he sat up to hear the words coming in through the insect weave over the open windows.

"Too sad." Anaiha was saying. "Too, too sad. Any loss'd break my heart, but to lose a young one-"

Ashalle hummed her agreement, and muttered a protective blessing-invoking Falon'din! He thought: why had they all given up? Where was their determination? The will of the Elvhenan that the keeper so often preached on?

"To Tamlen, he believes!"

"Oh, emma ir, ir abe'vhenan!"

"Of course, he's so _loyal_. Always has been."

"And stubborn."

"It's all part of the same thing."

"Oh, that it is." Arahad could just picture how Anaiha's head would be bobbing. She always made out that she agreed with you.

"It just breaks my heart," Anaiha went on. "Do you remember how they'd sit in the middle of camp, when they were da'vhenan, da'len, both chattering and Tamlen doing his hair? And kept on doing it as they grew."

Ashalle had picked up the tone of the Beyond-dirge and put a note or two of it into her speech. "And do you remember how- when they were da'len- if we said- and there's Tamlen-"

"-Someone else would always say- so Arahad won't be far behind. Such a loyal pair!" Anaiha sighed, and then lowered her voice. "Although, I've been wondering, that is, I've heard others wondering and thought on it myself, and you must understand that I say this with nothing but love for Arahad, poor child: but do you think that, perhaps, and it was certainly not done with intent, his own intent, I mean- but do you think that the- shadow-over him took his hand, then, in the forest, to try and make him lead Tamlen to his domain, his doom?" A pause. Anaiha's hasty speaking told him the pause had been an offended one, and she sought to undo her rudeness to Ashalle. "And take Arahad with him as well, of course, lead them both to destruction, of course- but with Arahad's hand."

Ashalle's only answer was to keep humming parts of the dirge, and eventually Anaiha joined her again.

Arahad pulled the shutters to, and got beneath his blanket. If they started carrying a dirge in earnest, more of the camp would pick it up. He did not want to listen.

* * *

><p>He did not dream. But moving towards sleep, in murky half-awareness, he remembered.<p>

"Lethallin." Tamlen had finished his plaiting and was now idly rubbing the strands of the braid close to where they met his skull. He would not even realise he did it- he was in some mindless, blissful mood in which he might have toyed with a stem of grass and gazed at the stars. Here, now, he was gazing at the shards of blue sky and the light that shone through the leaves as if they were film-thin, and he toyed with Arahad's hair. "Lethallin, isn't this grand? If time would stop, I'd be quite happy to stay here, forever."

Arahad closed his eyes and thought: so would I.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Elvish translations:<em>**

_Arlavhenan- literally, heart home. Used by the Dalish to allude to their clan or any place they feel strongly attached to. _

_Aneth ara, ar ressan enansal- Humbly come (used sort of a general signifier of deferring to whoever you are speaking to), I offer blessing._

_Atisha, ma resavhir- Peace, you have leave. (together with the above phrase make up a formal and necessary way of asking to join someone at their hearth, or to enter their home- or when making any request the Dalish consider to be a personal intrusion or large imposition in some way)_

_Da'len - lit. little child. Specifically one yet to earn vallaslin. Also used as a term of endearment._

_Abelas - lit. sorrow. Used as an apology._

_Elvhenan- lit. place of our people, or our hearts. Name of the elvish civilization that existed prior to human arrival in Thedas. Still used by the Dalish to refer to themselves as a collective people or culture._

_emma ir, ir abe'vhenan- Lit. my very, very sad heart. Better translated as my poor, poor heart._

_Da'vhenan- Little heart. Term of endearment, generally for a child._

_Lethallin - term of endearment, similar to clansman or cousin._

_Again, thanks to xseikax and Suilven for suggesting I add this section._


	3. Abandoned

_**A/N:** At long last, the next chapter! Having been busy for an extended period I now have lots of free time again, so updates should even out for the present. Anyway, enjoy! And thanks again to all the new reviewers and story-alerters- you all help motivate me to keep on writing. As ever, special shout-out to Bitenomnom/ShiningMoonfor helping and cheering and general loveliness._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: Abandoned <strong>

The camp was full of a hush much more like the cool of pre-dawn, than an hour at which any hard-working soul would have been up for hours. Knelt before the alcove set in the back of the aravel, above his bed and beneath the overhead trunk, Arahad poured water from the pitcher into his ceremony-bowl and intoned the day break blessing. He broke off a new piece of incense, and lit it so it would waft over him as he washed his face. All that was as regular as any other part of his readying-for-hunting routine; until he bowed his head to the eight-point star of the Creators carved in the god space, and closed his eyes to raise a quiet prayer.

"_For myself, I ask for all Anduril's gifts,"_ he said, in the broken tongue of the Elvhenan. With one hand he touched the effigy of the Huntress he had been given the day her marks were inked upon his face, and with the other hand touched the river stone that had been carved with her name when he had been born into her time.

"_But I also ask for one who-whose_-" and how would you say tongue, in elvish? He would have to settle for: _"-voice- may be unable to call you. Protect Tamlen, Mythal, mother; and Ghilan'nain, guide, bring him back to me. To us. I am forever your servant, and this I beg of you. Blessings be on beings divine."_

When it was done, he decided he would wait until the incense had burned down, before he left for the keeper's aravel. So he sat on the palette big enough for two, and ate stale bread as he tried to imagine all the strength of the Gods sweeping into him from their prison in the Beyond.

* * *

><p>"Merrill leads," Keeper Marethi said to all the sombre gathering. The whole camp had come to her tent to watch them receive her blessing, it seemed. "Though Arahad leads the way."<p>

An irritating and unnecessary distinction, Arahad thought. One that Merrill could invoke if an argument broke out, worse luck. "And Fenarel: you have asked to go. I believe you will be of aid if these caves are indeed still choked with monsters- but remember what is at stake and do not act lightly, when I have placed this responsibility with you."

" Ae, ar'dethar, vhenan-hahren."

"Then go. Emma enansal."

As they moved through the small crowd every one of the clan close enough to reach them touched the passing three, and whispered for sorrow, grief- and luck.

* * *

><p>Halfway to the cave, he was sick.<p>

"I _told_ her you were too ill to go," said Merrill, eyeing the handful of vomit edging down the boulder.

"And I told her it was unthinkable that we wouldn't set off as soon as we were able!" said Arahad, spitting out the last sour dregs of it. "It wasn't too bad when I woke! That hit me sudden. I feel quite fine now."

The latter part of that was not all together true. A faint wooziness had gripped him since he had begun trekking, although the stomach churn that had doubled him over _had_ come through him quick as a snake strike. And while Ashalle's sick bed soothing of 'if you get it out, you'll feel better' had always been true before, having got it all out _now_ he almost wished it was still in. His head had begun to throb, and he felt nausea might rise again.

Merrill 'mm'ed but still looked thoroughly dissatisfied.

"Merrill. It's good to have you with us-" Arahad began.

"Even if you are the keeper's stooge!" said Fenarel. Arahad elbowed the smirking young man, trying not to grin himself.

"Well, even if you are the keeper's stooge. It's good and so let's not fall out, mm? Remember what's at stake, the keeper said."

"Very _well_," Merrill huffed, then paused; and managed a slight smile.

"Mythal's mercy, but you've tamed the Dread Wolf," hissed Fenarel. Arahad chuckled and thought of pushing him; but did not, as he realised with his muggy head it might well make him lose balance. Or throw up.

They went on in silence. Around them, the Brecilian forest whispered, breathing sunlight and mist.

* * *

><p>As they passed through each chamber of the caves Arahad's certainty that some trace of Tamlen would be in the next one grew. So by the time they stood before the door to the mirror-room he was so determined Tamlen would be there that he thought, for a moment, that the figure before the cursed object was his lethallin and when he realised it could not be, for a moment he was sure he would be sick again.<p>

"_Another_ shemlen in the place of our ancestors!" he yelled, reaching for his bow, because he truly believed this shem kept him from Tamlen and was responsible for the whole nightmare mess of it, because what else could have happened?

But Merrill was between him and the shem, and spoke over him.

The shemlen Duncan, who had saved him but not Tamlen. A Grey Warden. Warden of what, exactly? Shemlen things that did not matter, that was what.

Merrill led the dialogue. If either he or Fenarel tried to raise an objection, she raised her voice and carried on speaking until they gave up.

Then it was decided: the shemlen would destroy the mirror and they would return to camp. With the shemlen.

"But- Tamlen!" said Arahad. "We've barely searched the forests. I bet we could pick up his trail. No, leave me, and I'll pick up a trail and you can go back."

"Ser-" said the warden, and Arahad's belly lurched to realise a human was addressing him. "I am sorry, truly, but I've said before. We cannot save your friend."

And so when he shouted "but I _could_ save him" and no-one listened, he knew he was betrayed.

* * *

><p>They had covered a mile before Arahad had gathered enough resolve to draw level with the human.<p>

"Tamlen-"

"Ser, I am sorry for your loss, you must understand this, but-"

Him, talking to a human! He even managed to look the shem in the eye as he said: "I only need to know if he's still alive."

"Ah." The shem said it as if that were a difficult question. Surely there were only two answers? The warden was soft voiced and careful mannered, for a quickling, Arahad admitted. The handful of times he had met a human's gaze before, he had had seen hatred and fear and all he would expect from the children of the Chantry, but this one looked on Arahad with a kind of sadness. No, pity, that was it- why would he feel sorrow for an elf? Pity was much more a quickling's character. It was undoubtedly with pity that he said: "If he is alive, he is as good as dead-"

"And what if he _is_ alive, and I find him-"

"You will be unable to help him. He will die soon."

"Well, _I'm_ not dying."

That pity flickered back over the human's face. "Ah... you have been restored somewhat by your keeper's magicks. But the sickness in you still grows."

"And what _is_ this 'sickness'?"

"You'll learn later, I swear. I would wait to explain the situation in full to you, than give you pieces here and there. Be patient."

'Be patient'- like he was a needy child. Yes, he thought, as he let the human stride back to Merrill at the front of the line, the shem held himself with far too much self regard and held his regard of others with far too much pity. But, then, what was surprising about that?

* * *

><p>The keeper and the human were talking alone. When they were done, he would be summoned.<p>

He was numb, for now, and he wanted to keep numbed and distracted for as long as he could, so he waited by the guardian vhenan pole at the centre of the camp, beside the bonfire pit. It was a point where he was visible and at the crossways of the camp, so that those passing by would stop to speak to him.

More than usual went past that way, because more than usual were coming to the fa'vhenan to tie cloth and ribbons through its carved loops. Even the ones who paused to speak with him looked at him as if they felt guilty, whilst they said a short prayer. He was used to those guilty, furtive looks, though they had lessened in the years since- since he had been sworn in as a champion and his life had begun to crack and pull apart.

Mostly they said abelas, or how tragic it was.

And he would say: "But Tamlen isn't dead."

And sometimes, if he asked them, they would say they knew little about these wardens, other than that they were noble and to be respected, because they worked to protect every living person, human or elf.

To which he would say: "But he's still a human," and mostly that would shrug and more or less agree.

Eventually all he could think was: Tamlen is not here.

* * *

><p>The keeper and the Duncan-human summoned him in time. They began by explaining the cave and the human's business there. He knew they were building to telling him something vast and undoubtedly bad, not only because the keeper was telling him so much, and in such detail, but because the pity softening the human's eyes had spread to hers.<p>

As he had heard from a few other clansmen, the creatures _were_ darkspawn, but the human explained further: the mirror had been filled with the same taint they carried. By touching it, Tamlen had released this taint; into the cave, himself, and Arahad. Grey wardens sought to fight this Taint, and it was on his way to the mirror that Duncan had found Arahad.

'Tainted'. Duncan said it careful, as you might pronounce a God's name. Arahad was tainted. His recovery was only temporary: soon, he would sicken, and die. But: if he joined these Grey wardens, he would be cured.

"How? How will I be cured?"

"I cannot tell you so soon. Frustrating as it may be, for our order to remain strong it is necessary we keep some Warden matters secret. But, if you join us in the battle against the Blight, you will live through this."

The realisation hit him, as sudden and complete as if he had turned a corner and found the dreadful truth stood plainly before him. They had reached the peak-point: the underlying purpose of this whole conversation, that had made the Keeper and the shem so uncomfortable. "You mean- I will leave the clan, and not return?"

"We will go north, soon, before the summer ends," said the Keeper. "Humans have strayed too near to us, too often. And if this truly is a Blight, it would be unwise to linger near its source. But; a Blight is a storm that will engulf us all if it is kept unchecked- which is why to have one of our number in the ranks of the wardens will be a true, true honour. Abelas, but I doubt you will find us again."

It was a nightmare. He was choking in a nightmare. Tamlen _gone_, and now- _leave_ the clan? It was an idea too big to grasp. Leave his Arlavhenan, and go beyond to human lands. Creator's mercy, human lands. Images burst and tumbled in his mind like insects from a shaken log. He saw huge places packed full of buildings, and the buildings were packed full of humans, the gluttonous, nightmarish creatures who destroyed and conquered and hated all that was Elvhen.

"I must leave- forever?" Why did his voice have to quiver? He was strong, he was brave, he was Elvhenan, even if his belly was cold with dread.

The keeper nodded, once, her face tight with worry and pity. It was an old joke amongst the da'len that the one who could make keeper Marethari show feeling would be crowned Lord of all Elvhenan. Then I await my coronation, he thought grimly. "We could not watch you suffer," she said. "The grey warden offers you a way to survive."

Duncan spoke up. "Let me be clear: this is not simply charity on my part. I would not offer this if I did not think you had the makings of a Grey Warden."

Hard to believe, when that soft pity still lingered on the shemlen's face.

"What of my- what of-" he met her eye and knew she understood what he meant. "How will I cope with my- duty- as _Andruil's_-" her eyebrows quirked at the distinction- "champion?"

"Abelas, but if you leave us you will no longer be Andruil's knight. We must have eight champions with us- it would be grave disrespect, otherwise."

"Of course, but I only thought that-"

"Atisha, emmavhen. You will continue to... honour Andruil as you have before, I think. I will provide for that. Meanwhile, Hahren Reia will choose a new champion to take your place." He thought: you mean; to take the space you have never filled, and that I am to continue to honour what I have always honoured. He was well practiced in knowing what was really meant: who was really referred to, when the clan spoke of Andruil to him, of his service. Was she relieved? Was that flash in her eyes relief, held back, disguised by pity?

Your heart holds a bitter seed, da'len, Ashalle had said. Yes, he had said, but I did not plant it and you only have to look around you to see who watered it for me. And to that, she said: there speaks the bitterness, as if she, too, blamed him.

It was with this swelling in his chest that something in him snapped, and he took the Keeper's wrist and loudly said: "Please, do not cast me out! I _cannot_ leave, please- I can't carry this alone, exiled-"

"Then you leave me no choice," said Duncan. "I must invoke the right of conscription-"

"All right! I will _go_- if this is my duty, Keeper, I will go-"

Yet Duncan finished his order. "-Binding you into the service of the order of Grey Wardens, as is my right."

The Keeper gently unclasped his fingers from her arm. "And I recognise and acknowledge this invocation."

"Didn't you hear? I said I will go!"

"Da'len," and Arahad started to hear the Keeper address him so- _personally_. "This tantrum is unfitting of one of our blood, and most unlike you! Know that what you go to become is a position of great honour for _any_ being, and that I do not send you away without great sorrow. But if this is what the Creators intend for you- then you must meet your fate with your head held high. No matter where you go, you are Dalish. Never forget that. It is because we love you too much to let you die that we must let you go- this you must understand."

If he understood, why did it still feel like a banishment?

* * *

><p>They would leave before dawn the next morning. The gracious warden had allowed him to stay for Tamlen's funeral. Then, they would be off, because shem-Duncan said he feared for Arahad's health, the longer they remained.<p>

In the time between finishing his packing and going out to the mourning-band for the beginning of the lament, Arahad paced the aravel and sat and paced again. One, two, three, turn, back to the door, one, two, three, turn, back to the bed.

Then he sat again and unpacked and checked the tightly fitted innards of the frame and hide bag arranged by his palette. He had little enough as it was, and yet he was only going to be able to bring a smattering of what he owned. The rest he left gladly for whoever would take the aravel next: Sethain and Ghilana, most likely, once they were paired, but he would have liked to take at least a little more. If he had enough of his home with him, he would not be diluted by the humans and their world. This was meant to be my home for all my life, he thought, as he gazed over the narrow space. The carved ribbons of halla circling the walls; the painted trunks; the tiny stove; the god-star carved alcove and the table you could kneel before or pull to you, when you sat on the bed that was made big enough for two.

Tamlen never even got an aravel.

Leave the clan, forever. An impossible idea. All his life had been cycles, patterns. What could there be beyond the circles of trunk and aravel and the turning days? What happened when the loop was cut? He saw himself thrown, cut loose, and who knew where he would land, in the vast dark.

Somewhere in the darkening forest, Tamlen was still alive.

He was not going to cry. He was strong, he was Elvhenan.

So why, when he thought of the lands beyond the trees, did his pulse rise between his ears and his throat constrict?

* * *

><p>It had been as much a funeral for him as it had been for Tamlen.<p>

The morning that followed was to bring in a clear, golden day: but when he stood on the edge of the clearing, the human already in the trees, it was still cool and dark. The keening and death chants and ululations of the night before had died for good once the bonfire to Elgar'nan burnt down, ending the mourning and sending them all into Falon'Din's quiet. But if anything, the people who massed to watch him go were _more_ forlorn than they had been that long, dark night, even if their tongues were now stilled in respect for the dead.

The dead- both of us, he thought. If Tamlen can be buried and sent to the Beyond while still alive, then so can I. It was the clearest thing to pass his mind through all that heartsore morning. Mostly he remembered the three branches they had snapped, one by one, in the ceremony that had been performed before any of the death-rites, to signify his severance from Andruil. The sharp green smell freed as each one broke seemed to linger still- that was what made his nose wrinkle and his face crease as the keeper murmured the last of the prayer for safe travel. And he thought, mostly: I will not cry, I will not cry, I am strong, I am Elvhenan, and pretended his churning insides were but a part of his sickness.

No one said much to him. No one seemed much able to.

But as he was counting down to the moment he _would_ turn away from them, finally turn, he would do it and get it over with; Ashalle embraced him again, kissed him on the forehead and said in a cracked voice: "You will make us proud. Emma enansal, emma abelas. Good luck. I love you, my dear son."

"Ae, mamae."

And he slipped away into the trees.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Elvish Translations:<strong>_

_Ae, ar'dethar, vhenan-hahren- Yes, I hear you, heart-elder (literal translation of one of several elvish terms for keeper. 'Hear' also implies assent/acceptance)._

_Emma enansal- My blessing. _

_Dread Wolf- Euphemism for Fen'Harel_

_Fa'vhenan- lit. guarding heart_

_Abelas - lit. sorrow. Used as an apology_

_Atisha, emmavhen- Peace, (my) clansman. _

_Emma enansal, emma abelas- My blessing, my sorrow._

_Ae, mamae- Yes, mother/mama_


	4. Grievance

_**A/N: **__And we're on to chapter four, which took me considerably longer to publish than it rightly should have. And, yes, there are going to be horses in this version of Ferelden. I understand it was done in-game to save the headache of faffing around with horse models, but game mechanics aside, with all the freedom a story told only in words provides, to me, it makes absolutely no sense that an entire country would refuse to use one of the most important assets you can possess in a pre-engine world. But then, I am the sort of person who tends to over think those sorts of little details. Anyway! Thanks again to the ever-helpful bitenomnom. Read and enjoy._

_-Sushifer_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: Grievance<strong>

"How are you?"

"Hah! Shemlen tu vhenas'vin tur'alas , psh!"

What a foolish question. How did the human expect he would be?

The human seemed to realise the stupidity of his own words, glancing down to where Arahad paced beside him, through the forest. "Ah. No- I only meant, has the Taint become any stronger?"

"I am light headed and dizzy, sometimes. Sometimes I want to be sick and sometimes I am sick. No fever, yet. It's a little worse, but not much."

The human nodded, once. At his side, his horse whuffed as if agreeing with its master.

Arahad was back to fighting down a stream of ceaseless thoughts:

go back go back what are you doing how can you be doing this think about what you are doing turn back someone help I can't bear this I am strong I am elvhenan vir assan vir bor'assan vir adahlen vir tanadahl I will not cry I will not Tamlen oh Tamlen I-

"We will ride all the way to Ostagar, once we're clear of the forest. We can't risk delaying. The darkspawn grow stronger each day, and so does your Taint."

Ostagar. Duncan has said it had been a fortress, which was something you defended, he had thought, and wondered what you did with it when there was nothing to defend against, and if that meant it was no longer a fortress. Duncan had said his army, or somebody's army or several armies- he was not quite sure which- were camped _in_ Ostagar, which seemed ridiculous, unless Arahad had heard him wrong. After all, human accents could be so impenetrable. He was certainly not going to ask him to repeat it. And he did not want to think over long on the open lands, or he would get dizzy.

The lands beyond, where the humans conquered and enslaved.

"Am I going to be a slave?"

The nobly spoken human was, for some time, stunned silent. When he did speak, there was a tension in his voice, as if he struggled to contain some insistent feeling.

"We have no slaves in Ferelden."

"Then what _am_ I going to be?"

"You thought I lied when I said you were to be a Grey Warden? You will be as free as any man."

"Huh."

"The wardens serve all, and so all people defer to and work to help the wardens. To be warden is to be a member of an order which commands great respect."

"So everyone keeps saying. Shem respect elves now, do they?"

"Whether you are an elf or a human does not matter. You will be a warden, and that is more important than anything."

In other words, I will be flat-eared, thought Arahad, and so no better than a slave.

Duncan's measured coolness returned as he hurriedly moved to other matters. "The hahren warrior of your clan tells me you are more of a swordsman than an archer."

"I am. I was trained and bound as- as Andruil's knight. I am hers no longer, but I still know how to fight." To anyone else he would have added: though it's true I'm no great shot, even if the needs of the clan have- _had_ sent me hunting many, many more times than they've needed my blades. But, that would mean admitting weakness to the human.

"Hm." Duncan appraised him for a moment. "These Dalish preist-knights- I understand you are a ceremonial order? You do not engage in real combat, against hostile enemies?"

"We are trained to fight as our ancestors fought! We are not _priests._ We each serve our god because we are their champion! We honour them as a champion must and when it's needed we take up arms for our clan. You think we're weak?"

Duncan gave him a very sharp look. "You must understand that I mean no offense. Nor do I look down on you," except you can't help but do that, thought Arahad with a smirk, looming over me like that, "because you are... an elf. I understand that you are angry, and grieving- but I cannot do anything for you, nor should I, nor should anyone, when we are approaching such a crisis. Ostagar and your Joining are more important than your petty personal concerns. You are an elf and I tell you this does not matter to me."

Trouble is, he thought, it matters to _me_, shemlen.

* * *

><p>They went quickly through the forest, from patches where the Veil was thin and the undergrowth shifted at the corners of the eye, to the bright, healed pockets where the bird song was louder and the air tasted cleaner.<p>

"You know the ways of these trees better than I," Duncan had said. "You should lead us to their edge."

Arahad had said in reply: "Tread carefully and show respect. When you make a fuss, the forest notices."

He had said nothing more to the human all day, after that.

Now they were to sleep, if briefly. Or, Arahad was to sleep. They would get no further: even Arahad could not traverse the forest in deep night, and he would have been a las'vhen fool should he have tried. Tomorrow they would come to the open forest outskirts, where there were human tracks that the horse could manage, and Arahad would no longer lead the way.

His dozing turned to delirium. The camp-fire light, guarded by the hump of human shadow, became one safe heart in the black forest. There were lights off the path and noises like laughter: all the night spirits he had grown up with, that did not hurt you unless you were fool enough to go after them. They were hardly a comfort, but he was used to them. Never before had they been _menacing_.

And when he began to sink towards true sleep, he would start to feel there was something vast _waiting_ for him down there, and he would jerk awake, sweating and choking.

And when he was awake, he thought of the clan, to begin with. He would always turn back to Tamlen, in the end.

A poisonous thought slyly lodged itself in the current of his fevering brain:

Tamlen knew.

He looked again at his recent memories of Tamlen. Under new inspection, they all shifted so that he felt he saw them from a different angle, from which things once hidden were now obvious.

Tamlen watching him from the opposite side of the stream. The way Tamlen had sounded as he told him about Seriah, and asked him about girls. And earlier, the way he had smiled, at something Arahad had said: sad, knowing, softly pitying.

If Tamlen knew, why hadn't he said?

The same reason you didn't say, he answered.

Creators save me- I do not understand this. Guide me from this dark path, I beg. What should I have done, Lord and Lady? Too late now-

Except Tamlen still lived.

He was so cold. Perhaps I will die, lethallin. I am as good as dead now, am I not? Exiled and sickening and the human says I may well die.

But not yet.

I am going to survive.

A new thought took root. I am going to survive.

I _will_ survive, because I am strong, I am Elvhenan, and even when hope is gone _we will endure._ I will survive, so I can find you, or find what happened to you, emma lethallin, because I couldn't bear not knowing if I didn't even try- because I _will_ try, because I _will_ survive, because I've held off this taint before and if I can find you I must try- because I've held this off before and I can control it.

And if I find you, I'll tell you.

* * *

><p>Everything felt wrong.<p>

The shem Duncan's bulk was behind him, and he shivered whenever the motions of the horse pushed the human against him. He was warm and too-big and he smelt wrong. The horse was wrong; Arahad did not feel at all safe, rolling with its strides and clutching to the pommel of the saddle, so far from the ground. When he had been struggling up the side of the beast- because he had slapped shem-Duncan's hands away when the man had tried to hoist him up- he had thought: and now I shall be at the mercy of a human. The shem could ride this horse anywhere and I would have no way to stop him, but to dive off and break my neck. He might break his neck anyway, with the way the horse skittered on this fissured ground.

When they had begun to ride, the sun still shone, but it had been dusk before they crossed the treeline, to ford the river beyond. Arahad had whispered: 'tu abelas, arv'ven' and had not looked back. 'Bad luck to look back upon a place you're set to leave', Ashalle would say- had said. Though, he thought, a little bad luck will hardly make a difference to me now, will it?

The night-landscape was wrong. It was full dark before they reached the pass between the hills, and it was then that he finally twisted round and leant out, to look past the human to the land below. He frowned when he realised that even with the light of the waxing moon he could see little: though he was sure, after a moment's staring, he saw the vast spread of the Brecillian, rolling to the skyline. Then they were descending and it was gone.

The land felt even more wrong on the other side.

He had seen mountains once before, when the clan had drawn near the edge of the forest one summer, but he had never been anywhere so open. He did not need sunlight, to feel all those endless miles of empty air pressing at him.

* * *

><p>He fell in and out of sleep and wakefulness as the horse's rolling strides shook his bones.<p>

"We'll ride through the night," said Duncan. "You grow sicker every hour. We must reach Ostagar by evening next. Try to sleep, if you can." Try to sleep- hah, instead he was trying to stay awake. Because if he did sleep, his head would fill with a roiling mass of dark shapes and things he could not see but could feel and hear like a swarm of flies, a swarm of flies inside his head, filling him, and under it all a keening _noise_- that would pull him, shivering and sweating, back into the twilit flatlands. Soon the two worlds were too close to separate, and soon after that he sunk, finally, into deep dream.

* * *

><p>The first thing he noticed on waking was the dried vomit stuck to the horse side, very close to where his head rested on the animal.<p>

He found this quite amusing.

Also, it was daylight. This made absolutely no improvement to the flat, brown land around them.

Though the mountains ahead were rather grand.

"Ostagar lies beyond that peak," shem-Duncan said, as he sat up. "At the end of the imperial highway. An hour or so and we'll reach it. You can spend the evening with the other wardens, before your Joining to the order, tomorrow." He said it hopefully, and paused afterwards. Did he expect some response, some questioning comment? When Arahad said nothing in return he continued, evidently snappish: "I suspect, by the decoration you've left on my horse, that you will want something to eat?"

"No."

"You will feel no better on an empty stomach-"

"Oh, I felt better- refreshed- until you mentioned _food_. Eurgh."

"Very well. Rest, then. You should get a full night's sleep in camp, tonight. You may not have the chance to get another for some time."

Arahad was suddenly very determined to stay as awake and alert as he possibly could.

* * *

><p>The slope up to Ostagar made him sick, again.<p>

Even Duncan made a noise of surprise when something much more grey and liquid than Arahad would have expected his stomach-contents to be hit the earth.

Duncan kicked the horse into a canter.

* * *

><p>The fortress was a tumble of boulders and spires from a distance, and no better close. In the cool ring of the mountains it was an ugly shemlen mess, filled with, no, <em>swarmed<em> with humans.

When the stone loomed around them, he had to grip the saddle as a desperate impulse rose in him and he very nearly jumped from the horse to sprint away.

"Ostagar," said Duncan.

Ostagar, where they met a king.

Arahad was too strained trying to make sense of the mazed structures surrounding them and pinpoint where each nearby human was and where they went, to concentrate on this Cailan. He did not much want to concentrate on him, either, when the man was staring up at him with such gleeful fascination. He huddled down and let Duncan speak over his head about things he did not understand and even managed to make polite response to the king when addressed directly. It would be unwise to anger such a leader, even a shemlen one.

"You must not be so terse with his majesty," Duncan said, as they rode closer to the bridge across the valley. "_I_ can bear your manners, but it will not serve you well to be disrespectful to such a man, even if wardens are, in principle, not bound by his law."

"Disrespectful?"

"When he asked you about Dalish culture-"

"I told him truthfully, that he would never know more about us, because we've learnt what happens when we let humans in."

"Yes, and that was disrespectful."

"Disrespectful to tell the truth?"

"To tell it so bluntly, yes."

"So I must lie to be polite."

"In some circumstances. But it is always better to withhold some of the truth, than replace it with a full lie."

Then I must learn to deceive to survive out with the shemlen, he began to think- until that snide voice added: learn? You learnt years ago.

He had to shut his eyes crossing the bridge. Glimpsing the drop made his belly plummet as if he had actually gone over the edge.

The camp on the other side was a warren of human cloth and stone and metal.

Duncan brought the horse to a halt away from the main camp, as already he was being hailed by frantic looking humans. A boy had rushed up to take the horse a moment after Arahad's feet touched ground, and Duncan was striding off through the labyrinth of bustling humans a moment later, while Arahad still struggled to don his pack and weapons.

"It is too late to send you out to gather what you need for your Joining," said the human, as he glanced over at the gold-rimmed western mountains. "So, rest. You will share a tent with Alistair, I think- our newest warden- and tomorrow we will take you and the other new recruits to the wilds. There is something there that must be recovered and with the battle so soon I can spare no-one else. You will be a warden by sunset tomorrow. Now-" he stopped. The tents at this end of the camp were not as large or patterned as those around the entrance, though not quite as poor looking as the frames spilling out of the edges of the fort some way off. "I regret that I cannot explain further- but time is scarce. Usually all the wardens would be here to greet you and I would tell you more of the order- we all would. Alistair will have to take you through all that, I think. This is his, though he's gone at present." He pointed to a low cloth-and-frame structure in with a cluster of similar tents. "Now, I must leave you-"

"Oh, I see: I'm worthless, then, and worth abandoning." It came out much louder than Arahad had intended.

Shem-Duncan's gaze had him as fixed as a mouse beneath a hawk. "Arahad." It was the first time the shem had used his name. The human might have gripped his arm; his shudder would have been the same. "In any other circumstance I would stay by you: all the wardens here would, and we would help you feel a part of us because I know that you are angry and I think you have some right to be. But all this will wait. You cannot return to your life before, your clan. Accept this. You are going to be a warden, and I know you will be a fine one."

With that he walked away.

* * *

><p>He had sat in the tent for a good while and the shemlen Alistair had still not returned. He decided this was a good thing.<p>

The camp was a mess of humans and noise and humans making more noise, but sitting in the tent was no quieter, and nausea had begun to grip him again, for the space held a concentrated stink of human. But leaving would push him back out into that heaving camp of humans, and he was so tired, and his limbs ached- he could sleep-

He remembered the dreams, and that keening noise.

That decided it. Besides, the edges of the fortress looked deserted.

He pulled off his boots and unbuckled the last of his armour.

* * *

><p>The day was turning towards dusk when he laced up the tent behind him, barefoot and dressed in his deerskin breeches and the shirt with beads around the cuffs. He would find somewhere quiet. The noise of these humans made him want to scream. He was still sure he moved through a dreamscape. His eyes saw the sinking sun and instinctively his head told him: shouldn't you get back to camp, or set up your own for the night, and that would link to the next part of the routine so he would think of getting a fire lit and of what he had to cook on it, when some human noise made him realise anew where he was.<p>

He saw the first elves all too soon. A pair, two males, scampering after some human knight, carrying his camp chest. When they began to fall behind, the human stopped and waited for them both to catch up, then slapped them both and continued on his way. And the elves followed after, as meek as before.

It got no better. The flat-ears of the camp were all quivering creatures in repaired clothes, who could not look a human in the eyes. He had always hoped that the stories of the weak traitor-elves beyond the forest had been exaggerated, because they were all elvhen, were they not, so they all shared that same ancient blood? Now he saw they were all too true. He made sure to give a good glare to any flat-eared wretch who caught his gaze. Elvhen'din, all of them, miserable not-elvish elvhen'din. Swaying on Duncan's horse, as his mind had faded the night before, he had thought- perhaps there will be one, one exiled child of the forest whose heart he could share or perhaps even one who did not wear vallaslin, yet held the strength of the Elvhenan. But he had gone beyond the vhenin, the realm of the People. Hahren Paivel had been right to call it 'the desolate waste beyond the forest'. I stand alone, he thought, and kicked a pebble.

* * *

><p>The ever-present dog hubbub grew louder. He was approaching the narrow pens in which hounds that looked as big as him gnashed and scrabbled. He paused, watching from some way off as the kennel master patrolled the fence. The human stopped, and hefted a bucket up, to toss it into the cage. Wet meat slapped the dirt, and the dogs feasted.<p>

Arahad was transfixed. He watched the glistening scraps falling to the dogs, and swallowed. He was _very_ hungry. He _did_ want to eat. He wanted to gorge himself. Why had he not seen this before? But what he wanted was not bread or stew or fruit, the thought of which raised his gorge- he needed something fresh- raw, sticky meat was what he craved- perhaps, he could sneak up to the hunks of carcass waiting at the side of the pen and-

"Elf!"

The kennel master beckoned. Arahad shuffled closer but made sure to keep some distance between him and the human.

"I've a job for you. You find the recruits who're going to the Wilds tomorrow, and give them a message, and I shall give you a silver, mm?"

"I _am_ one of the recruits who're going to the Wilds tomorrow."

The human guffawed, until meeting Arahad's eye cut him silent.

"Hm. Now, I'm not saying I believe you- but just in case, not wanting to get on the wrong side of Duncan or nothing- saying you _were_ a recruit, I don't wonder if you might'nt do something for me when you're out in the wilderness- and if you're not, well, pass the message on to someone who is."

Arahad wondered if he should hit him now, or later.

"If you happen to see any little white flowers," the human continued, "dainty things, grow near water- easy to spot though they're hen's-teeth-rare- I wonder if you'd pick some for me? I got a dog who won't live unless I get some, y'see. Poor old sod picked up something off the 'spawn. Probably tried eating one, daft beggar."

"Which dog? Show me." They might not keep dogs, but he was certain he would know the proper treatment of a beast, better than any human.

"Yeah-" said the human, heading for one of the far gates of the dog-run "yeah, you might be able to- you little fellas don't seem to spook them as much as humans, when they're fretting-"

Arahad gave the man a hard look, until he started explaining.

"He needs muzzling. He's given me a fair nasty bite already and I don't want him causing havoc if he goes rabid. Or goes Tainted. And I reckon, if you really are a warden, seeing as poor Theold was killed before the mutt could- well, he might-" he paused, and shook his head. "Anyway. He needs muzzling. You want to try?"

How could Arahad decline? Other humans were starting to nudge each other and watch them. He had seen that sort of crowd often enough, when young hunters announced they would clean and prepare their first kill themselves, or da'len took it on themselves to climb an unconquered tree. They had the look of men eagerly waiting for a mishap.

He vaulted into the pen.

The animal was huge, even curled on its side. The drool stringing its muzzle glistened and its half lidded eyes glinted, and he could smell its sour breath. It breathed, and whimpered, and that was all.

He imagined it rearing up, snarling, striking before he could get back over the fence that blocked his back.

He crept towards it. It remained motionless. He stopped by its rump. He could feel the heat seeping from it on his bare calves. He swung one leg over it, then the other, so he straddled its back. He crouched, holding the muzzle, holding his breath.

It growled. It did not move, but he saw those teeth flash as its lip curled and the noise it made was long and low. He kept leaning down, pulling the muzzle wide. A wrong twitch, and his fingers would brush its snout.

It kept growling. He gulped, blinked, spoke Andruil's name and drew himself into the place-without-fear- and slipped the muzzle over its jaws.

The dog did not move. The growl stopped. He knelt, swallowed his calming heart, and tightened the buckles of the muzzle, adjusting it to fit. As he stood, the dog looked up straight into his eye and his pulse caught. He had not expected it to look so sad.

Some of the nearby humans cheered as he vaulted back over. Now they had the look of men watching a young hunter drag his first kill back into camp.

Arahad grinned. And none of you dared do what I did so easily, he thought, striding off. Maybe, there'll be some satisfaction to be had in this horrid nightmare, if I can keep showing the humans I am better than them all.

* * *

><p>He wanted to find somewhere quiet, just for a moment, just so he could breathe. But even when he had moved through enough of the hollow ruins that the camp was a faint howl and not a roar his head was not cleared. It was all stone, stone everywhere, and all the grass had been churned to mud beneath the feet of an army. He had been small in his clan, but here, he was dwarfed. He had almost been run into twice already, and these aisles of stone made him feel shrunken, pinned, lonely. He was trapped. He saw himself in a hand, in a closing fist; and he vomited.<p>

When his stomach un-tensed, he wiped his mouth and went on. He would head for the western edge of the ruin, to watch the sunset already glowing golden between the snapped spires of the fortress.

Ahead, someone laughed.

He held himself still and listened. There were undoubtedly humans nearby. He could see them moving; a pack of them stood or sat, passing some object between them. He was walking down a thin corridor of the ruin, built along a narrow outcropping of rock. Either he could go back, or he could cross these humans to reach the end.

He strode on.

He walked as close to the edge of the corridor as he could and held his breath and looked straight ahead, but still he had to look when a human voice cut the air, and he was close enough to see the man's teeth.

"Truly, our predicament must be bad if the royal camp's own knife-ears can't afford shoes!"

Arahad paused. There were four men, each of them with trimmed hair and fine, bright-patterned clothes, none of them any older than him. Two held bottles.

"Now," continued the human, in a drawling, precise shem-accent. "Are you a boy, or a girl? I can never tell with you little creatures." His companions snorted and grinned.

"Doesn't matter, does it?" said another. "Close your eyes and get it in and an elf's an elf, no?"

Arahad thought for a moment. Then, he walked up to the human who had first spoken, and punched him.

The human staggered; blood streaked his cheek. His companions cackled as if at some uproariously ridiculous prank, as if it was _funny_, until the man steadied and lunged and had Arahad by the neck. Arahad froze, watching him, watching those bared teeth, those wolf-blue eyes. The man's grip was damp and he pressed his fingernails into Arahad's throat, just hard enough to hurt.

"You say sorry, and I shall be nice and let you go."

Never breaking the gaze, Arahad brought his knee up sharp into the man's groin. As the man doubled over, Arahad spat, catching the human's neck, and followed it with every elvish curse he knew.

"Thinks he's a big man, doesn't he?" said one of the companions, still laughing. "Bless."

"Oh, we'll tell everyone about _this_," said another.

The man was hunched so low he was almost on the floor. He half looked up to Arahad, face made animal with rage. Arahad kicked him in the side of the head as hard as he could.

"No shemlen will _ever_ insult me and leave unscathed. I will-"

But the man has suddenly unfolded and caught Arahad's legs and he was falling-

The man had him straddled a moment later, blood flecked teeth bared as his hands found Arahad's throat again and now he _squeezed._

"_Get his arms,_" hissed the man, and a friend leapt to hold Arahad down.

"You won't actually kill him, though?" said one with the vague concern of someone worrying about a cat cornered by children.

"Of course not! I'm hardly that much of a fool, you _fool-_" the human's words faded beneath a roar that spread through Arahad's head. He could not hear and he could not move and he twisted and pulled and he drew breath but he _could not breathe-_

His face felt cool. He realised they had spat on him.

In his shrinking mind, he imagined someone rushing round the pillars, shouting and pointing at the men.

No one came.

* * *

><p>"You <em>have<em> killed him."

"I damn well _haven't_, you imbecile. Nudge him- you see. He made a noise, did he not?"

"Is he crying?"

"-pissed himself, look-"

"-not moving, though-"

"He'll wake up soon. Come on. I'm _bored_."

Arahad had returned to consciousness some moments before, but strained to stay absolutely still until their footfalls were quite gone.

He sat up. He sucked at the air, but that only made him cough and retch and _that_ only made him even more desperate to breathe. His throat burnt: he felt he had swallowed gravel. His vision had been groggy before, but now, he saw through a haze.

And all he could think of was that face, the human, a handspan from him, and that he had been powerless.

He crawled into an alcove of the wall and waited for his trousers to dry and most certainly did _not_ cry.

He slunk back to the tent when, around midnight, it began to rain. At least it would save him washing the piss-soaked trousers.

* * *

><p>A snoring shape that he assumed was the hateful shem Alistair was stinking up the tent when he crawled in and undressed. Arahad had thought the tent a good size, but the huge, sprawled human took up over half the space. Rage rose in him like vomit when he realised his pack and pile of things had been moved: until he saw it was all in the same order and position he had left it in, only leant against a different tent pole. His bed roll has been neatly laid out, as well.<p>

He curled up as far as he could from the big, mumbling pile of blankets and tried to sleep.

* * *

><p>His dreams were worse. The dark things that moved like glinting smoke and that <em>noise<em> remained and kept resurfacing, shadow-shapes in the pool of his mind- but he dreamt of Tamlen too and it was this that woke him. It was hard to doze off again as half-drowsy instinct screamed at him to get away from the human pressed against his elbow. Still, he would take the familiar, guilty wakeful memories that already crept before him, over those churning, uncontrollable dreams.

Tamlen had stood before him, smiling, and then he had coughed, and coughed again as if he was choking, and when he looked up he had smiled even wider, and his mouth had been filled with black blood, that slicked his chin and slid down his chest, because he was naked, or had he become naked? and then Arahad was him, he was Tamlen and he saw himself, except he was a shrunken skeleton with skin as pallid and transparent as taut gut.

And then he remembered the shemlen's hands on his neck, and he suddenly wished sleep would return.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Elvish Translations:<strong>_

_Shemlen tu vhenas'vin tur'alas - literally, human with a body-dirt filled mind. Better translated as shit-brained human. Being an incomplete ceremonial language, Elvish does not much lend itself to snappy insults. This, however, does not stop young elves from doing their best to construct imaginative insults or abbreviated cusses. If anything, Arahad is almost showing off/ indulging himself here by using a more awkward, formal phrasing._

_Vir tanadahl- Way of Three Trees. Taken from the Elvish 'charge of Andruil', supposedly the teachings of Andruil herself, this is the way of the hunter- a guide and prayer for hunters, although all Dalish use it as a sort of mantra. The three other phrases Arahad recites (detailed below) make up the three guiding principles (the three trees) of the discipline._

_Vir assan- Way of the Arrow: fly straight and do not waver._

_Vir bor'assan- Way of the Bow: bend but never break._

_Vir adahlen- Way of the Forest: together we are stronger than the one._

_Las'vhen- abbreviated form of felas'vhenas, literally translated as slow mind- essentially, stupid._

_Emma lethallin- my clansman._

_Tu abelas, ar'ven- With sorrow, I go. Farewell used specifically for a long parting. Due to the unlikelihood of elves ever leaving their clan, it is generally only heard during an Arlathvhen (the meeting of the clans every decade) or at funerals._

_Elvhen'din- not-elves. Similar in connotation to flat ears._

_Vhenin- soul. Though not with quite the same connotations as the human word soul, it rather refers to the combination of the mind and heart that the Dalish say leaves the body to journey through the Beyond on death. Ghosts are believed to be the manifestation of the heart of the dead, which has been unable to form the Vhenin with the mind, or has been forcibly separated from it. This entity is also believed to be something pooled across all children of the Elvhenan- something of a group spirit, which each elf is part of, even while its owner is alive. When it is said that that great Keepers have spoken directly to the hearts of their people this is more or less literally meant- they have supposedly tapped into the collective Vhenin. Non- Dalish elves are commonly believed by the Dalish to have lost this._


End file.
